


Exaltation On A Cool Kitchen Floor

by zombiebatch



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Sherlock (TV) RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-03
Updated: 2012-04-03
Packaged: 2017-11-02 23:35:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombiebatch/pseuds/zombiebatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Benedict goes over to Martin’s for what may or may not be a dinner date, fanfiction is read and fanfiction writes itself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exaltation On A Cool Kitchen Floor

**Author's Note:**

> Interrupting the zombie apocalypse, currently in progress, to bring you [this fill](http://sherlock-rpf.livejournal.com/584.html?thread=21064#t21064) for the [sherlock-rpf meme](http://sherlock-rpf.livejournal.com/).
> 
> Also, even though Benedict and Martin have actually read fanfiction together, I am pretty sure it didn't happen like this. That is to say, none of this is real.

_“Invite me over for dinner sometime. Just me and you.”_

_“Um, all right.”_

Thirteen words – one that barely qualified as such – and none of them gave Martin any indication as to whether or not his evening with Benedict would be classified as a date. His thoughts oscillated between  _it definitely isn’t_ and  _it definitely is_ as he ransacked his closet, looking for an outfit that seemed casual and relaxed and potentially date-appropriate. Picking out clothes wasn’t supposed to be this damn difficult – in fact, it was something he usually enjoyed. Ordinarily, all he sought to communicate with his outfits was  _I am stylish and I don’t give a fuck what you think._ Now, he was giving a great deal of fucks about what Benedict would think, even though – to the absolute best of Martin’s knowledge – Benedict had never showed any could-possibly-be-misconstrued-as-romantic interest in him. That is, up until his ambiguously-phrased demand that left Martin feeling weak and hopeful.

And, lest he forget, this was  _Benedict._ Benedict of the preternaturally-defined cheekbones and eyes that changed color more often than his hair and that honeyed voice that made Martin want to find a wall and either put his fists through it or fuck Benedict against it – he wasn’t sure which but at the moment, both options appealed to him.

Martin also couldn’t help but think about how this was his first date-or-maybe-not-a-date since The Split, which was never meant to last long enough for Martin to revert back to any socially acceptable mating rituals. He was aware that Benedict knew about The Split – he wasn’t sure  _how_  Benedict had learned about it in the first place, only that he’d approached Martin on set one morning with a cup of tea and a hug and an offer to lend an understanding ear. Martin had been too dumbfounded to take him up on it and  _oh god, maybe that’s what this is_ , Martin thought.  _This is a little sympathy get-together. It’s a two-person pity party. He feels bad for me so he’s generously donating his time to my pathetic little cause._ With his hopes sufficiently dashed, he selected one of his many oversized cardigans and paired it with crisp slacks and a dress shirt: the standard Martin Freeman uniform.

Just as he was finished tousling and re-tousling his hair for that  _oh, I was just lounging around listening to records and reading until you showed up_ look, there was a knock on the front door.

_Here goes absolutely fucking nothing._

“Ben!” Martin said, getting an eyeful of Benedict in a salmon-colored blazer ( _if he were my boyfriend I’d set that thing on fire and piss on the ashes_ ) a T-shirt and distressed jeans – not particularly fancy but his newly-brown hair was artfully coiffed in a way that sort of said date even though his clothing didn’t.

“I brought wine.” Benedict said.

_2008 Egon Müller Scharzhofberger Spätlese Riesling._

_Date._

Benedict smiled and pulled Martin in for a half-hug, complete with a light pat on the back.

_Not a date._

“I made dinner.” Martin said.

“I can smell that,” Benedict said, stepping into Martin’s living room. “Smells good.”

“I didn’t have a lot of time to make something elaborate but I hope you’ll like it.”

That wasn’t  _entirely_  true. Once he’d accepted Benedict’s self-invitation, he’d immediately started fretting about what to cook. He wanted to make something that said  _I’m interested_  without seeming desperate. If his feelings for Benedict could be made into dinner, it would be something with a long, decadent-sounding name that probably meant  _re-purposed leftovers_ , but would sound positively alluring as it rolled off his tongue. Instead, his dubiously well-concealed lust for Benedict took the form of linguini with shrimp scampi.

“Martin,” Benedict said as they stepped into the kitchen. “this is—kind of amazing.”

“It’s nothing special,” Martin said. “Just pasta and shrimp.”

“No, look at that tablecloth and the candles and— _place settings_? Wow, you really went all out, huh?”

He’d erred on the side of  _date_  with that one, selected a pair of scarlet-colored tapered candles which added a certain  _if you’re thinking about maybe wanting to fuck me, that’s totally okay_  air.

Or so he hoped.

“You got here just in time,” Martin said. “Dinner’s still hot and everything.”

Martin plated up some dinner for each of them while Benedict fumbled with the corkscrew.

“Let me,” Martin said, setting their respective dishes down on the table. “You’re the guest.”

“Ah, cheers, Martin,” Benedict said, sitting at the table. “This looks great. I had no idea you were such an accomplished chef.”

“I’m not, really. It’s been a while since I’ve done anything really adventurous.”

“I’m not much of a cook myself,” Benedict said. “I’m not  _terrible_  by any means but it’s definitely not my area of expertise. I wish I were better.”

“Especially that chopping vegetables bit.” Martin said.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

They sat across from one another and talked. All the while, Martin was making a mental list of everything date-like:  _wine, dinner, candlelight, the thoughts running through his head_  and not date-like:  _everything else_. They chatted back and forth about filming and upcoming projects and even indulged in a bit of gossip, which Martin usually didn’t care for but somehow he didn’t mind it with Benedict – he trusted that nothing he said would find its way to the wrong ears. Benedict was innocent enough to mean it when he swore he wouldn’t tell a secret.

“Remember when we first started  _Sherlock_?” Benedict said, helping himself another glass of wine. “It seems like so long ago.”

“Doesn’t it? Remember when we had no idea just how big it was going to be and then the next thing you know—”

_Don’t mention the fanfiction don’t mention the fanfiction don’t mention the—_

“—we’ve got fans on the internet writing about Sherlock and John’s sexual exploits.”

Benedict nearly spat out his wine.

_Way to go, Martin. Way to go._

“Of all the things I thought you were about to say…”

“You mean you’ve never read a word of it?” Martin asked.

“I know it exists, and that’s all I really need to know,” Benedict said. “Do you actually go looking for it?”

“Amanda and I used to have this game,” Martin said. “We’d try to one-up each other and see who could find the strangest things out there. Sometimes I have tentacles, sometimes you’re pregnant…”

“I’m— _I’m_  pregn—but—”

“Don’t ask,” Martin said. “Actually—hang on a minute.”

“No—that’s—oh, well—okay.” Benedict called as Martin walked into his living room, reached for his endearingly (well,  _he_  thought so) outdated MacBook Pro and brought it into the kitchen. He pecked at the keyboard with his fingertips until he called up something that made him giggle.

“This is a bad one,” Martin said, scrolling down the page between laughs. “‘Sherlock moaned as John breached him. It had never felt like this before and Sherlock’s cock was weeping as—’”

“I don’t want to know, Martin! I— _weeping_?”

“Our cocks are always weeping,” Martin said. “ _Always_. You and I have very sad cocks.”

“I would be weeping too if,” Benedict said, pushing his chair closer to Martin’s in order to get a better look at the screen, “you were ‘digging your nails into my hips, hard enough to leave behind bruises.’”

“Wait, no, it gets better, look: ‘Sherlock moaned again as John plunged his throbbing member into—’ ‘Plunged’, Ben! What am I, a plumber? Why am I plunging your arse?”

“‘Oh God, John, don’t stop,’ Sherlock said as John slammed into his prostate.’ Dear me, what  _would_  Mrs. Hudson think if she knew what was going on under her roof? She'd have a coronary.”

“If you scroll down far enough, you’ll probably find her joining in.” Martin said, tapping his finger against the trackpad.

“Are there any characters on that show who aren’t fucking the living hell out of each other?” Benedict asked.

“Nope,” Martin said. “Apparently there’s a nonstop fuckfest going on behind the scenes at good old 221B Baker Street.”

“Sir Arthur’s probably turning over in his grave.”

“Sir Arthur would not have cared. Didn’t he say, in so many words, that he didn’t give a fuck what others decided to do with the character Sherlock Holmes? I imagine that includes him, you know, having his way with dear Watson.”

“Why do you  _read_  this?” Benedict asked. “It’s all slick skin and rock-hard cocks and arses.”

“Because, like I said, it’s bloody hilarious.”

“I find it interesting that, of the myriad sources of humor on the internet, this is your favorite.”

“To each his own.” Martin said.

He’d given up on thinking this was a date sometime after he’d allowed himself to say  _nonstop fuckfest_  in Benedict’s presence, especially as it hadn’t been in reference to something that involved the non-Sherlock and John versions of themselves engaging in the aforementioned, colorfully-named activity.

“Besides, Sherlock and John are definitely not interested in each other like that.” Benedict said authoritatively, taking another sip of wine.

“You—you’re insane. You’re talking about  _Sherlock_ , right? Our  _Sherlock_. It’s absolutely cornered the on-screen homosexuality market. It’s got to be the gayest show on television. Second gayest, when they’re not showing re-runs of  _Star Trek_.”

“Yes.  _Sherlock_. The show about two friends who live together and—”

“—who are shagging each other silly in between cases, yeah.  
  
“Martin!”

“I didn’t think so at first either, but you’ve got to admit it’s true. And you can’t honestly expect me to believe that you haven’t been playing Sherlock Holmes like that. This whole time I thought you were. How do you explain all that sexual tension and all those longing glances?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you do. You do that look - like this.”

Martin turned to look at Benedict craned his neck upward _just so_.

“See what I mean?” Martin asked.

Benedict didn’t say anything, but Martin could tell his silence was all about  _agreement_ —there was some sort of heat between them and it seemed to be building as the gap between them closed and the back of Martin’s hand slid down Benedict’s cheek.

“John definitely wouldn’t do  _that,_ ” Benedict said. “Entirely out of character.”

“He wouldn’t do it when he knew people were watching, obviously,” Martin agreed. “But when the case is closed and they’re back at 221B and Sherlock’s got all that nervous energy and John wants to calm him down—”

Martin’s hand made a carefully calculated slide from the edge of the table to Benedict’s knee. They were closer than ever and within the span of exactly one electricity-charged moment, they were close enough for Martin to determine that the best way to consume that fine wine was by tasting it on Benedict’s lips. Benedict opened his mouth slightly to accommodate Martin’s tongue.

“That,” Benedict said afterward, “did the exact opposite of calm me down.”

“Interesting indeed.”

They kissed again and this time, Benedict was  _really_  kissing back. Somehow his  _hands_ were kissing back too, folding around Martin’s cheeks and pressing against them in a heart-stoppingly possessive manner that made Martin want to reassess every time they’d ever touched, scouring each point of contact for clues as to how Benedict felt about him. For in all the years that they’d known one another, he’d never dreamed that Benedict would kiss him, let alone kiss him back, let alone kiss him back with his entire body.

“So,” Benedict said. “what else happens in those stories of yours?”

Martin cleared his throat.

“Well, um, sometimes John seduces Sherlock and sometimes it’s the other way around. Sometimes John’s on top and um, sometimes Ben, er, Sherlock is on top and—”

“I see,” Benedict grinned. “And who would you say is doing the seducing right now? Me or you?”

Benedict cupped his hand against the front of Martin’s trousers.

“Y-you are.”

It had gone from being  _probably not a date_  to  _this might be a date_  to  _okay now we’re just reading fanfiction so there’s no way this is a date_ to  _never mind this is totally a date to why on earth did I think that this wasn’t going to be a date; I should have gone to the shops and stocked up on a lifetime supply of condoms._

Martin couldn’t say that he objected to the progression of events.

“Er.” Martin said. He was usually so smooth and yet all of his usual verbal seduction tactics were lust-muddled and out of reach, especially when he noticed the elegant flush of color on Benedict’s cheeks.

“I—um—didn’t mind that,” Benedict said with a slight bow of his head. “at all.”

“Nor did I.”

“Should we—that is to say, we don’t have to do anything you don’t—I mean—I’m fine with whatever you’re fine with.”

_Oh, you have no fucking idea what I’d be fine with._

Martin gave Benedict’s thigh a light squeeze, and stood.

“I think I need more wine.” Martin said.

He reached for the half-empty bottle on the counter but before he could pour another glass, he felt a hand on his shoulder and a kiss on his neck.

“You must have known I wanted this right?” Benedict said, breathing softly against Martin’s skin.

Martin wasn’t sure what to do.  _If this were fanfiction_ , he thought,  _I would have anticipated this and would have inexplicably stashed a bottle of lube somewhere in the kitchen. You know, as you do._ But he was not the smooth, internet-spawned version of John Watson – he was barely the smooth, real-life version of himself, not when Benedict’s lips were practically setting his skin on fire.

“I had no fucking idea in hell you wanted this,” Martin said. “I didn’t even think this was a date.”

“I asked you to invite me over for dinner, just you and me,” Benedict said incredulously. “How did you  _not_ know?”

“I have no—fucking—clue.” Martin said as Benedict lips made their way down Martin’s neck. He pulled at Martin’s cardigan and hungrily claimed the un-kissed skin beneath it.

“I have to admit,” Benedict said, his fingers grazing Martin’s neck, “I was getting a little worried that you didn’t know when the night threatened to turn into creepy fanfiction story hour, but you have  _more_  than redeemed yourself.”

Benedict’s hands encircled Martin’s waist and his long fingers made quick work of Martin’s belt.

“You really want this?” Martin asked.

Benedict said nothing, but pressed even closer to Martin, who couldn’t help but gasp as he realized  _just how fucking hard Benedict was._

“Point—uh, point taken.” Martin said, just as Benedict’s hand slipped down the front of Martin’s boxers. Martin wasn’t exactly  _not hard_  himself, and he almost wanted to be ashamed of his own blatant arousal, but Benedict’s hand was gliding so deftly against Martin’s cock that there was no room for anything in his mind other than the warmth of Benedict’s hand, and he moaned a little louder than intended.

“Mmm,” Benedict said. “You like that?”

“So good.” Martin said. He closed his eyes and focused all of his attention on the soft touch of Benedict’s fingertips. “God, I could probably come just from this.”

“I almost—I almost feel like I could too.” Benedict said. “You—just _you_ , Martin. Fuck, you’re incredible. Just you.”

Benedict was incredible too. He was beyond incredible. He was—Martin racked his brain for the fanfiction term he’d once heard—a Mary Sue. Or a Marty Stu. Frankly, he could call himself anything he wanted at this point, so long as he kept stroking the head of Martin’s cock like that. Benedict, Martin realized, was too perfect to be real. He was a physical embodiment of everything that Martin had ever found attractive. Arousal made flesh. And he was good at this, too – good in a way that made Martin half-wonder just how many times Benedict had offered up post-dinner hand jobs, but there’d be time enough to think about that when Benedict wasn’t sliding Martin’s trousers to the floor and turning him around and dropping to his knees and—

“ _Ben._ ” Martin said, right as Benedict’s tongue made contact with Martin’s achingly hard cock. He let out a soft, strangled groan of both desire and disbelief. He could feel himself— _Martin, don’t think ‘throbbing.’ Self, step away from the fanfiction, quickly, run – don’t walk_ —but this  _wasn’t_  fanfiction and he was throbbing and Benedict was taking every inch of him into his mouth, lapping and moaning like his lips and tongue and  _throat_  were made for nothing else.

 _No, slow it down_. Martin thought as Benedict sucked harder. He staunchly refused to finish quickly – he wasn’t sure just how many times he was going to find himself standing in his kitchen getting an exquisitely executed blowjob from Benedict Cumberbatch and he certainly wasn’t going to –  _ahem_  – blow this opportunity.  _Think of something unsexy_ , Martin thought, but his mind was still orbiting Planet Fanfiction, its satellites being  _Pulsing Cocks_  and  _Long Hard Shafts_  and all the things that used to be hilarious but were decidedly not so anymore.

Hell, even  _plunging_  sounded good right about now.

And then he reached the point where there was no thought that wouldn’t be sexy to him, and it was all Benedict’s bloody fault:

“Ben, I’m—I’m—”

He thought Benedict would take this as a warning to pull away, but instead he let Martin sink deeper into his mouth and swallowed , which was unbelievable in its own right but when Martin looked down to see Benedict staring back at him with those eyes of his right beneath his damp rosy brow, Martin let out yet another embarrassingly loud groan and tilted his head back right as he slipped out of Benedict’s mouth.

“Jesus. Fucking. Christ.” Martin said, slumping against the kitchen counter. Benedict, still on his knees, was breathing heavily as well.

“Yeah,” Benedict said, running his fingers through his hair. “I—”

Martin knelt down next to Benedict and ever-so-slowly ran a finger along his obscenely damp lips.

“You’re amazing.” Martin said.

“Better than the fanfiction?” Benedict asked, and for a moment he looked almost— _vulnerable_ , and Martin realized that Benedict’s desire for approval ran far deeper than Martin had ever known.

“Much better.”

Martin pulled Benedict onto the floor and they lay there for a moment, their bodies warming the cold kitchen tiles. His mind was ablaze with all the things he wanted to do to Benedict, and this was on the list as well – just lying with him, curving his hand around Benedict’s waist and resting against the tantalizing heat of his chest. He wanted everything else as well – every depraved,  _throbbing and plunging and moaning_  word of it – especially now that he knew there was a chance that Benedict wanted it too.

“So this was a date, then?” Martin asked.

“This,” Benedict said, heavy-lidded and surprisingly sated for someone who  _hadn’t_  just come down his friend’s throat, “was a date.”

Martin smirked against the newly-familiar comfort he found in Benedict’s arms; it had taken thirteen words to make Martin wonder, and only four for him to know.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the Bright Eyes song of the same name. Just seemed right.


End file.
